


Familiar Pains.

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Can Take Care of Himself, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24284014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: Jaskier is attacked by a group of men wanting to hurt Geralt. They quickly discover the bard is much more than he initially appears.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 393





	Familiar Pains.

He is used to pain. It’s not unusual, given his lifestyle to be in pain. He’s used to the ache of overworked muscles, tired and screaming as they rip themselves apart, slowly stitching back together, making him stronger.

Used to stiff shoulders and knots in his back, bruised and battered from sleeping rough. Burning calves and aching feet from walking hours on end, blisters burst and bleeding long before he stops.

Used to cold toes, frozen fingers, hands shoved into his armpits in an attempt to warm them, keep them functional.

He knows how to take a punch, been in enough bar fights to prove it. Dealt with everything from black eyes and split lips to bruised ribs and broken bones.

He knows it doesn’t always look that way, it doesn’t seem obvious to many on the outside. He knows he can look soft. Look delicate, breakable.

They see the instrument, his flashy clothes, and they assume that is all there is to him.

They assume the only weapons he knows how to use are his sharp words and witty remarks. 

Words they underestimate, not realising the strength those words alone afford him. The ability to shape the land, shift favour, enough to make a hero or destroy a bloodline, all with just a few, carefully placed lyrics.

And if they underestimate his one publicised power, the one he wears branded on his sleeve, making clear to the world that he is a wielder of words; then is it really such a surprise when they assume he has no other ways to defend himself. 

They assume he’s breakable, an easy target, so soft and fragile.

An idea he often doesn’t fight. He can’t help it, he likes to indulge, enjoy the finer things in life. He knows how it looks, how they see his love of showy clothes and fine wines and assume he is as soft as the feather pillows he favours.

Because that is all they see, the soft pillows, sweet wines, and good food. The showy bard, purposefully playing up his delicacy, soft, cheeky and charming.

And utterly unthreatening.

They don’t realise how much of it is purposeful. A carefully crafted act, making sure that his harsh and twisting words and cheeky flirtations are well hidden under the facade of comfort and security. It makes them more amenable, more agreeable, welcoming. More likely to part with their coin, share a warm meal, perhaps a warm bed, and let him be on his merry way, no trouble caused.

Well, most of the time. 

Most decent people have no issues, letting him ply his trade and be on his way.

And for others… well there word of mouth did much to help. Reputation follows you, wrapped like a thick cloak around your shoulders. And over the years he had built himself a fine one, for when your looking to avoid a fight.

For the bard this meant a reputation forever branded by the Witcher, travel with him often enough and it soon doesn’t matter if he is at the time alone or not, they see him and they see the Witcher. He finds that plenty took one look at him and decided even if they could break his skull, run him out of town, it wouldn’t be worth it once the fierce guard dog comes calling.

But then there are the other few, the ones who by some happenstance haven’t heard of his favoured travel companion, or sometimes they have, sometimes that’s the point.

Sometimes his connection to the Witcher is the only reason they decide to go after him.

They decide it’s worth the risk, worth the risk to hurt the man, the monster, hurt him in a way that won’t hurt them. They know they can’t touch the Witcher himself, so they go after the bard. The delicate, breakable bard. Looking to break the Witcher by breaking him

He assumes that’s what these _gentlemen_ had intended. They were careful, he would give them that, making sure he was alone, Witcher away for the evening on a hunt, waiting until he stepped out of the pub, trailing him down the dark and winding streets. They must have done a fair job of it, that or the ale in his veins was strong enough to mask their presence.

He barely even noticed them until they approached. 

Then he noticed. Thank the gods he heard them coming, quiet and swift feet, rushing across cobblestones set his mind into motion. Adrenaline kicking in, he ducks more on instinct than anything else, wooden plank sailing clear over his head, hitting the wall with a concerningly heavy thump. 

He spins, low on his heels, tugging free the hidden blade from his waist.

He can make out three of them, one with a club, the others carrying nasty looking blades.

He doesn’t have much time to absorb the information before the one with the wooden club takes another swing at him. The man is mercifully slow, uncoordinated. He ducks aside with ease, directly into the path of one of the others.

A large, burly man, face half hidden by a cloth. The man takes a slash at him, knife glinting in the moonlight as it swings at him.

He jumps back, just barely making it out of the way, knife slicing through his doublet.

The blow to the back of his head catches him off guard, head pounding, ears ringing as he swings around, digging his short blade into the man’s chest, letting out a satisfied snarl when he feels blade connect so easily with the flesh.

He doesn’t have long to enjoy it, before another blow from one of the other attackers stuns him, sending him reeling.

He manages to regain his footing in time to sidestep another swinging knife, He slashes back, ducking down to avoid the man’s wide swings before raising and slashing the knife along the man’s gut, intestines spilling out. He revels in the resulting scream, stepping aside to let the man drop to his knees, knife slipping from his fingers and clattering on the cobblestones as the man desperately clutched at his spilled guts.

He doesn’t have time to watch the man cry, the other two coming at him again. The one with the club, blood dripping from the open stab wound, takes another hit at him, landing a blow against his chest, sending him stumbling back against the wall.

The other dives at him, driving a knife down towards his chest. He manages to move in time, blade instead digging into his shoulder, digging in deep.

He lets out a cry, diving forward when the man pulls the blade free and back, lifting it to strike again. Instead he tackles the man, sending them both crashing to the ground. He rolls quickly to the side when the man under him takes another swing, unfortunately having managed to keep hold of the knife in the fall.

The action turns out to be doubly helpful, the bleeding man behind him having swung down towards him, now striking his friend square in the chest with the club instead.

The large man roars in anger, turning to take another swing at him as he moves to stand. This one hits, swinging into his ribs and knocking the breath from him, he hunches over, only just having mind enough to duck the next blow, headed for his head.

He dives forward between blows, knife in hand, slashing at the man’s already injured chest. He man stumbles back with another roar, bloodied but still standing.

He hears the other start to rise behind him, turning in time to catch the man half up and vulnerable. Without giving himself time to think he digs his blade into the man’s neck, blood spurting out freely onto the dusty street.

The man falls with a gurgle, eyes wide with shock, clutching at his throat; he will not stand again.

The echoing roar from behind him is enough to rattle his bones, swinging round once more to face the last of his attackers.

The man once again swings high, as he ducks low, but he’s slower this time, worn out and bloodied himself, the hard wood managing once again to connect with the side of his head, sending him stumbling to the side, one hand out to steady himself against the wall.

The man pauses, eyeing him, now more than aware of what he is capable. He bares his teeth, waiting, challenging, ready for another attack.

He doesn’t have to wait long, the final attacker diving forward with one more roar, club swinging down towards him.

He dives out of the way, intending to dance round the man, knife sliding into flesh as he goes. He doesn’t get the chance, feet failing to find purchase on blood-soaked cobble stones. He is sent sprawling, blade dropping from his fingers and scattering out away from him. He cries out again, a sharp pain shooting up his leg, his ankle twisting unnaturally in the fall.

His attacker lets out a triumphant laugh, club raised high to strike him.

But luck has once again shifted to his side, fingers curling around the handle of a knife one of the others had dropped, swiftly driving the large blade into the man’s leg.

The man screams, rearing back, giving him the opening he needs to pull the knife free, and, ignoring his screaming ankle, surge up and drive the blade deep into the man’s chest.

He yanks the blade free, before driving it again, twisting, listening as the mans scream becomes a desperate rasping gasp, blood spilling from the man’s lips.

He yanks the knife free one last time, letting the man fall back, mouth open in a silent scream.

He falls back himself, leaning against the wall and panting as the final dregs of adrenaline quickly give in to exhaustion.

His arm has gone cold, the gash in his shoulder still sluggishly bleeding, slowly soaking through his now ruined shirt.

He pushes himself up, pushing through the oh so familiar pain, knowing it would be unwise to stick around for too long, given the mess of the scene around him.

He limps the rest of the way to the inn, various aches and pains slowly revealing themselves and setting in as he goes.

He makes it back undisturbed, trying not to draw any more attention than absolutely necessary as he quietly sneaks into the inn, quickly climbing the stairs and stumbling into his room.

He collapses, heavily onto the bed, lets himself breathe, feeling the exhaustion settle further into his bones.

He wants to lie there, let himself drift off to sleep, body tired and heavy, the last of his adrenaline having completely worn off.

But he knows he can’t. Can’t pass out yet, shoulder still bleeding, now soaking out onto previously clean sheets.

He pulls himself up, tugging off the ruined doublet, tossing it aside. He pulls his undershirt open and off with much more care, having to carefully tug the ripped fabric free from his wounds.

Chests bare he winces at the scattering of harsh red marks, knowing that by tomorrow he will be covered in a number of large, ugly bruises.

A problem for tomorrows Jaskier, for now he has an open wound to deal with.

He has plenty of supplies, a necessity when traveling with a Witcher.

He digs through his supply bag, yanking out the necessary items, and settles down to work on cleaning out the wound with a cloth and clean water. He is grateful they had already called for a tub, a necessity for whenever Geralt goes out for a hunt.

He can’t hold back a gasp when he first brushes the cloth against the wound, raw nerves flaring up at the contact. He doubles over, clutching the wound, sucking in a breath, trying to get the pain back under control.

He’s still hunched over, breathing when he hears the door swing open, looks up to find Geralt watching him from the doorway, back early and covered in the remains of his own battle.

Geralt frowns, head cocked as he studies Jaskier. He stares back, challenging the man to say anything.

The Witcher remains silent, walking past him to wash his hands in the tub before retuning to pluck the cloth from Jaskier’s hands.

He lets Geralt take it, looks away as the man presses the cloth to his wound, biting back against his pain. Geralt hums, wiping the wound clean.

He’s unable to hold back the gasping whimper when the Witcher douses the wound in spirits to disinfect it, gasping at the sharp burning pain. He quickly stuffs his fist into his mouth to hold back any further sounds.

He watches Geralt out of the corner of his eye, watching as the man carefully thread up the needle, ready to stitch up the wound. He is once again unable to hold back a whimper when the needle first pierces through skin, the sound slipping out around his clenched fist.

The Witcher watches him closely, carefully tugging the torn skin back together, it hurts, as it must, but Geralt is careful to cause no more pain then is necessary.

He shutters when the final knot is tied, he’s always hated stitches, hates the feeling of his skin being tugged and pulled on, yanked back into place.

Geralt uncorks the spirits, pausing to give Jaskier a moment to steady himself before poring it over the stitches, washing away the remains of the man’s blood.

He hisses at the burn, biting back curses. Geralt carefully dabs away any remaining liquid, he hums quietly, raising a hand to gently nudge Jaskier’s face towards him, eyes meeting for the first time that day.

Geralt leans in, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. He lets his eyes fall shut, leaning in, feeling his shoulders drop, properly relaxing for the first time sense the attack. He all but colapses forward, weight falling against Geralt’s chest.

He feels more than hears Geralt’s resulting hum, the Witcher carefully tugging him up, guiding him over to the bed. He lets out another hiss, clutching at Geralt’s chest when he feels his ankle twinge at the movement.

The Witcher tucks an arm around him, taking most of his weight, gently helping Jaskier down onto the bed.

He sits, Geralt helping him slide off his boots, the Witcher taking this as a chance to examine his admittedly swollen ankle. He lets out another whimper when Geralt rolls the ankle around in his hand, making sure it was only twisted and not broken.

Satisfied Geralt lets him lie down, settle back and try to get comfortable despite the many aches and pains growing more and more obvious all over his body.

The Witcher leans across, steals a pillow from beside Jaskier to tuck it under the bruised and swelling ankle.

He pays Geralt little mind, settling back and letting tired and heavy eyes fall closed.

The stillness letting him reflect on the itching tug of his shoulder, the radiating ache of his sore ankle, and the other assortment of injuries and aches throughout his body.

He feels a slight pressure, a breath ghosting over his head, Geralt pressing one final kiss to his forehead before stepping away.

He breathes out a sigh, feeling the tension bleed out of him, exhaustion beating out discomfort, letting himself rest, letting himself be.

He is in pain.

But he is used to pain, he knows pain. He can handle it, adjust, overcome.

His skin will stitch itself back together, twisted ankle slowly settle back into place, body repairing itself, a chance his attackers would never get to have.

They had made the mistake of assuming he was weak, fragile. Breakable.

A mistake he insured they would never be able to repeat.

Because he knows pain, and he will not let himself be stopped by it. 

**Author's Note:**

> -thanks for reading-


End file.
